Perchance to Dream
by Changhenge
Summary: Oneshot. It is January 2010. Syed and Amira are on honeymoon and Zainab is is struggling with her night-time terrors. Written for Yuletide's NYR on a prompt from Dessie.


**A/N This was written as part of _Yuletide_'s _New Year's Resolutions_, on a prompt from _Dessie_ to write something about Zainab. I'm intrigued and wary of writing Zainab as she is such an interesting and complex character, so I'm rather nervous about this. I think there are loads of different interpretations and this is but one, so it would be interesting to know what people think.**

**Set in January 2010, whilst Syed and Amira are on honeymoon.  
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**January 2010**

It has been a long time since she dreamt of it. Not since she told Shabnam and felt the old scars start to throb with remembered pain. It used to happen fairly often, the night terrors of choking and muted screams and inescapable panic. But for a long time, until just recently, she had barely dreamed of it at all. _Nearly forgotten it all_, she had told herself firmly. _Nearly forgotten you_, she had told the ghosts of the past. _See how I ignore you? You have no power over me, I have forgotten you_. She was well aware of the irony of her words and ignored them, shut them away in the part of her mind reserved for such unthinkable emotions and thoughts. She is good at that, sometimes. It is harder than many people think, to turn your mind away, to ignore hints and signs, to deliberately refuse to see. And it is especially hard for her, she who loves to know, to be told the truth and to glow in her wisdom. To beam surely and say, with what some might deem arrogance but she prefers to call well deserved pride, _well a good wife/mother/friend/neighbour would always have noticed_. But she can do it, can shut her eyes and can do it well. And if only she had just done it again that time… Her fists clench unconsciously, nails digging into soft flesh. It is a familiar refrain, if only, if only. But she just couldn't. Not that day, not when it was all going to be perfect.

She shuts off the buzzing of angry disconcerting thoughts in her mind, resolutely focusing instead on the glass in her hand, the steady gurgle of water streaming out from the tap and then the cool cold sensation running down her throat and hitting her stomach. There is a nudge, and prod from the tiny limbs within. A reminder of their presence, a demand to be the centre of attention again. She wonders if they are complaining about the water or celebrating. If it is a foot or a hand, an elbow or a knee. And suddenly it becomes important that she knows, that no part of her unborn child is a mystery to her. What kind of a mother wouldn't know if it is her child's foot or hand after all, she thinks, poking carefully and then more urgently at the mound of her belly, until an annoyed kick within nearly leaves her winded. A foot, she decides confidently and reassured. She had forgotten this feeling. It seemed strange that she could forget, after three children she thought nothing would be new to her, but it wasn't until she felt the first twists and turns, first nudges of tiny fists, first determined butts from disproportionally large heads that she realised how much she had forgotten. It always reminds her of him, of the exhilaration and terror that marked that first pregnancy. She longed for his movements, treasured them, feared when they were absent. She spoke to him then, feeling him wriggle with recognition of her voice and clung keenly to this newfound power. She could never explain it properly to Mas. She tried a bit, at first, and he felt the movements later from the outside, making comments about how he was sure it was a boy when he kicked particularly hard, jokes of how he'd get him playing cricket before he had even taken his first steps. But he didn't know, he couldn't know, how it felt inside. How powerful she felt and how vulnerable. How she never felt alone anymore, she had given her body over as refuge and shelter to this…_being_ that was in her and with her and of her, and that she thought would never leave her, never betray the trust and nurture that she had so willingly supplied. Waves of nausea hit her now, acid burning hard at the back of her throat as she leant over the sink and retched with more violence than she had ever encountered in early pregnancy. She grips hard on the counter, knuckles whitening, fingers splayed, regaining breath.

It had been a bad one tonight. It always starts the same. It is the heat that hits her first. This strange sense of inescapable heat. It's almost pleasant at first, warming her cold toes, but it isn't long before it becomes oppressive, and she starts to fan desperately at her face, to pull anxiously at her collar. Surely it is too tight, it must be too tight, she'll loosen it and then she'll be able to breath normally again. But it doesn't stop, just keeps getting hotter and hotter. And then it is the smell, acrid, noxious fumes that crawl inside her nose and linger there, clinging tight and making her retch. And she thinks maybe her eyes are closed and so she opens them, but it is still dark, and her eyes sting and she blinks but there is nothing she can do. Sometimes she'll think she can feel her skin starting to melt, her body collapsing in on itself, her weak and malleable flesh licked by tormenting waves of fire. She opens her mouth and tries to scream but no noise emerges; her mute voice merely whimpering incoherent squeaks between chest-aching coughs. She starts to think that this, surely this must be the worst, but it is then that they will emerge from the shadows or behind the windows or beyond the door. They are safe though, it is only her in danger. Sometimes is it Mas and she will start to sob with relief, that he will save her, but he never does. He doesn't see her. Or he does and he laughs at her foolishness, at her naivety, at her dreams. Or sometimes it is Inzaman, shaking his head, lips pursed, eyes filled with disgust. Sometimes it is Yusef or his father or his brother or his mother. All standing there and pointing and talking of her shame, of the need for her to be punished for eternity. But these days it is often him. He might be there, with fine clothes and happy smiles and for a second she will feel her heart fill with such happiness and pride that she thinks she might burst, and just for a second, it is like the fire has disappeared and she can breath. But then he'll start laughing at her, and then it will be both of them, laughing at her, mocking her, _what did you expect, did you think you, someone like you, could escape your shame_. But other times he will cry and that is worse. And then sometimes he is in the fire with her, he is sixteen, or eleven, or eight, or five and in his first school uniform, all skinny limbs buried under too-big clothes, eyes wide with nerves and fear, and she reaches to stroke his hair and comfort him but she can't and he reaches for her, coughing with smoke and tears but she stands still and he falls. And then sometimes, like tonight, he is in her arms, tiny and red-faced, screaming and screaming and screaming and she is crying too and begging him to stop, please please just stop. And then she finds herself starting to wonder if he is really a sign of Allah's forgiveness or part of her punishment for her sins and then suddenly he is on the floor away from her and the flames are higher and the heat is choking her as she tries to reach him and tries to shout _my baby boy, my precious boy is burning and I need to save him_ but she can't get near enough and no-one else is there and no-one else can help and he is screaming and she is stuck behind pillars and flames and is trapped just standing watching as the fire comes nearer and nearer and he burns.

She hasn't told Mas. About the recent dreams or…anything. She told Mas about them at the start and he was sympathetic and kind. He made her tea and stroked her hair and held her tight till she fell back asleep. But she saw it in his eyes, his disappointment that his heroism wasn't enough, that he couldn't rescue her from the terrors of the night and she didn't like to see it. So she stopped telling him. And she couldn't tell him now anyway, not without opening another, more dangerous can of worms. He wouldn't understand. Not like her. She knows fires. She dreams fires, she survived fires. They thrive on air and attention. Grant them that and they explode into uncontrollable infernos. It had nearly come to pass, a bulking six-foot-tall arrogant ignorant reprobate gust of wind seeking to ignite embers and send their whole carefully built, precious, important structure crashing and burning to the ground. But it didn't succeed, their structure was too strong and the fire was contained. And that is what she will do. Fix a lid firmly on the remnants of the fire until it is safely extinguished for good.

She shivers in the cool winter night breeze. _Everything will be okay_, she reminds herself as she carefully dries her glass, carefully places it back on the shelf and carefully closes the cupboard door. She pads softly to the stairs and glances behind her into the pristine kitchen where no sign remains of her night-time disturbance. Stairs creak underfoot, soft carpet muffles creeping steps and she returns to bed. To sleep.


End file.
